


bury the mind

by LyraLV



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Broken Bones, M/M, Underfell Papyrus (Undertale), Underfell Sans (Undertale), eventual spicykustard, kustard - Freeform, spicykustard but not quite, that's the tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-31 09:19:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19423048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LyraLV/pseuds/LyraLV
Summary: Sans has a pleasant evening and a not so pleasant night.





	bury the mind

**Author's Note:**

  * For [nilchance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/nilchance/gifts).



> Gift fic for nilchance pertaining to their series Ain't This the Life. 
> 
> Set two days after "waiting for the light." Not canon to ATTL.
> 
> Content warnings are in the end notes if you need them!

It's not every day they decide to eat out, and Sans hates that he can see Red’s smarmy grin in his mind’s eye just as soon as he thinks that sentence. He can probably count on one hand the number of times the four of them have ever actually sat in a restaurant together. There's no special reason to celebrate tonight. No party. Everyone just happened to have a free schedule this time. Edge finished his work early because the kid is going to spend a rare evening hanging out with their adoptive parents, and Paps cleared out of the school sooner than usual instead of lingering after hours to help supervise the track and field team. With his newly flexible schedule, Sans can pretty much determine whenever he wants to take a day (or night) off, which Red was oh so gracious to grant him in a text with a surplus of winking emojis and lewd hand gestures.

Regardless, the afternoon is just settling to a close as the dinner hour crops up, leading the four of them to decide to try out one of the newer monster restaurants in town. Sans  will be sure to keep a careful eye on the cutlery just in case either Red or Edge begin to feel particularly stabby. They're not ones to often attend a crowded place with the intention of relaxing, especially not for a meal. On the bright side, it’s still rather early, so there shouldn’t be too many humans at the restaurant on a Tuesday night. 

Sans ignores the ache in his soul that's been building ever since he had that nightmare. It's just a couple more days until he has his weekly appointment with Edge. He can wait that long. 

Upon arrival at the restaurant, the host shows them to a booth that is right in the hub of the action. Edge politely requests that they be relocated, and soon enough, they're shown to a table towards the back of the restaurant, shoved up against the wall with no other closely occupied seating. Edge seems pleased, though Sans notes that he and his brother choose the seats against the wall facing the rest of the restaurant. 

Well, as long as they're happy. He slides into the chair across from Red, picks up the menu left behind by the host, and shakes off thoughts of overtime to cover the expense. His new job is significantly cushier. He doesn’t have to worry about making ends meet now that he has a job again. Still. There was a long period of unemployed space between his last day at the call center and the sudden, mysterious job opening for the embassy. Maybe Red will give him a raise in return for a blowjob. 

(Never mind that Edge is head of half of the security department, so Sans’s oral skills would be put to better use on him.) 

A waitress zips by, explains the day's special in a rapid-fire manner that Sans does not at all catch, then takes their drinks orders before zipping off once more. They spend the first five minutes in contemplative silence, just browsing the food choices. Sans rubs at his chest to dispel the tight feeling in his soul before dropping his hand. 

"I hear their Brussels sprouts are to die for," Papyrus whispers to Sans. 

"You order whatever makes you happy, Paps," Sans says. He pointedly flips to the burger page. 

"One vegetable could change your life, brother. I foresee carrots in your dinner tonight." 

"Then, you might want to give that crystal ball another shake." He flips to a different page in the menu. 

Papyrus glances down and sighs. "You are not at all funny." 

Sans looks up from the colorful array of milkshakes and catches Edge looking at him with a raised brow over his own menu. 

Sans grins. "And what is the magic ball telling you to get?" 

Edge rests the laminated pamphlet back on the table. "I'm not yet sure, but the salmon and asparagus does sound lovely." 

"Eugh," Red says helpfully. 

"Speaking of.” Sans nudges Red with his foot. "I don't think I've ever heard you be this quiet. You didn't swallow the chef while we weren't looking, did you?" 

"Maybe you're just overly chatty, tonight, sweetheart," Red says. Sans shrugs. His soul pulses again, and he automatically rubs the ache away. Red narrows his eyes at him. Sans shakes his head. Rolling his eyes, Red looks back down at the menu at whatever's been holding his attention hostage for the past minute. 

"What the fuck is honey mustard?" 

"Mustard but sweetened!" Papyrus says with more enthusiasm than is warranted for honey mustard. Red's face does a weird motion, balancing somewhere between bemused intrigue and disgust. 

"They actually put honey in it?" 

"I can't believe you haven't tried it yet." Red looks back at Sans. "They have a whole stock of it in the condiments aisle." 

"Boss won't let me go with him on his supply trips to the store anymore." 

Edge scoffs. "As if you ever want to join me. Besides, I refuse to have the cart filled with unhealthy food choices that aren't meals.” He glances at Red. "Look at the actual entrées, for fuck's sake. Our waitress will be arriving soon." 

It isn't long before their food orders are taken to the kitchen, followed shortly by the arrival of leafy appetizers that come with the entrées because Edge and Papyrus can’t help but be healthy. Sans looks at Edge's side salad with no small amount of distaste. At least Paps's soup appears halfway appetizing, though it's awful reminiscent of what his brother would attempt to stuff down his throat when he's sick. The plate of fries Red ordered for he and Sans to share are delightful. The sharp grin Red gave him when they arrived was less so. 

Paps and Edge have been talking about the finer points of leather and how to properly maintain it for the better half of ten minutes. Probably best to just not think too hard at the implications. 

Sans glances at Red only to see him intently watching Papyrus’s spoonful of creamy red tomato soup as it journeys from the bowl to his mouth. Sans kicks Red’s shin under the table. Red shoots back an unapologetic grin. 

“We could meet Friday evening to look over some possible choices of attire,” Edge says. He has a napkin held to his mouth as though to conceal any food particles that might be left after his careful chewing, but Sans catches sight of the little almost-smile he's hiding. Red and Edge’s sense of humor can be alarmingly unnerving when they find the same thing funny. Sans glares back at Red who props his chin on his hand and stares back with a waggle of his brows. 

“That would be excellent!” Papyrus exclaims, graciously ignoring the exchange. “Would you like to bring them to our house, then?” 

“Probably best that we just meet at mine so you can freely peruse my closet at leisure.” Edge folds his hands on the table. “I imagine we could make a night of it. Perhaps also watch a movie,” he muses with a faint, sly tone. 

Nope. Sans pretends to find the wall absolutely fascinating as Edge glances his way. Really, it’s unfair that Edge has decided to resume making Sans the subject of his teasing. It’s one thing when they’re alone and entirely another when his brother is sitting five inches to the left of his elbow. 

“You guys swapping closets?” Sans asks, casually daring a look back in their direction. 

“Not quite,” Papyrus says. “Seeing as how I have yet to go shopping for the right attire, Edgy Me has agreed to lend me an outfit of my choosing for a function I’ll be attending next week.” 

There’s no question as to what type of function Papyrus will be attending. 

“Oh.” Sans’s grin is completely normal and not at all strained. He wants to be happy for Papyrus, he really does, but there are some things he just can't dwell on too long for the sake of his sanity. Instead, he admires the varnish of the table and hopes the chill from his glass of water will deny physics and travel up his hand to numb his brain. 

“You kids have fun,” Red chimes in. “Me and Sansy will be sure to keep busy in the meantime.” 

Sans looks up in mock surprise. “You uninviting me from movie night?” 

“Just a little something to occupy ourselves with until your bro and mine have figured out wardrobe changes.” 

Red has an incredible talent of tempting Sans into a constant round of snarky back-and-forth that would never end were it not for the influence of either one of their brothers pulling them back out of it to keep the conversation from derailing. Plus, Sans can only handle so much deflection until he finally draws the line at dick jokes in front of his brother. Or any innuendo. The less Sans thinks about sex in his brother's presence, the better. It would be nice if Red jumped on the same program. 

Their dinners turn out rather delicious, all things considered, and the hour spent in the restaurant zips by until Red eventually feels antsy, and they pay their separate checks and leave. The evening air feels cool, but Sans is itching for a shower after today. He feels like he's been sweating through his shirt since his soul decided to throw a hissy fit. 

"So, we'll be seeing you later tonight?" Red asks as soon as they're in the parking lot. Edge had said he needed to make a quick jaunt to the embassy after Undyne had texted him about placing some important papers  on his desk conveniently after he had left (all of which was expressed with notably apologetic frustration on Edge's face), and while Sans could ride in the car with him, he'd much rather go home to shower off the sweat and change into a comfortable set of clothes, and he certainly won't be showering first thing if he goes home with Red in a cab. 

(Sans also definitely doesn't miss that "we" in Red's question and ignores the rush of magic that feels like it settles in his pelvis in response to the invitation. He is not some sex-addicted teenager, damnit.) 

He watches as Papyrus and Edge chatter about something across the parking lot next to their respective cars.

"Dunno." He grins back at Red. "Depends on if I can hitch a sweet, sweet ride back to your place." 

Red throws an arm around his shoulders and pulls him to his side. "I'm sure it'll be the boss's pleasure to take you on the scenic route," he says in a sly tone. 

Sans ducks out of Red's grip and walks over to Papyrus, adamantly not looking back as the setting sun makes his face hot. "Think I'll just call a cab," Sans calls over his shoulder. Then, because he's hopelessly lured, "Maybe in a couple hours." 

"I'll keep the bed warm," Red says back. Sans can feel the grin behind him. 

He waves to Edge as he and Paps get in the car. No doubt Papyrus can read his face like a book, so Sans refrains from making eye contact, but he catches Paps’s discreet, innocently teasing smile out of the corner of his eye. His brother, bless his soul, doesn't say a single word and instead flips on the radio. The soothing tunes of Slipknot escort them home. 

***

It’s nearing 7:30 by the time the front door closes behind them. Sans’s soul feel like it’s pulsating, protesting with the beat of a drum, and he drops his hand once he realizes he’s rubbing at his chest again. He feels sticky with sweat after spending the better portion of the evening trying to ignore the stubborn ache of his soul.

Sans kicks off his shoes at the door and shuffled towards the stairs, tossing Red’s jacket onto the couch. 

“I’m gonna hop in the shower real quick, ok, bro?” 

“Sounds stupendous!” His brother calls from the kitchen. 

There’s a faint dizziness as he climbs the stairs. Sans shrugs it off in favor of grabbing some clothes from his room to sleep in. He heads for the shower, drops his pile of clean clothes on the faucet counter, scoops up Papyrus's dog from where it's happily snuggled into the fuzzy softness of the bathroom rug, deposits dog outside of the bathroom, and shuts the door behind himself. 

He avoids his eyes in the mirror, but as soon as his shirt is peeled off, he looks at the state of his soul. 

Seems normal. He probably just needs another healing session with Edge soon, especially after dealing with the nightmare at their place. 

The dirty clothes are tossed onto the floor just as soon as the shower’s started, and Sans steps in. He’s not concerned about his soul getting wet at the moment (isn’t that just a laugh), but he avoids stepping directly under the shower spray. Just to be safe. 

It’s surprisingly difficult to manage soaping up from one end of the bathtub, so Sans settles for a cursory soap and a rinse. He’s in the shower, at least, so points to him for at least trying to be a functional adult. He scrubs away the cold sweat that feels like it’s long since dried on his skull. His eyes are only closed for a moment, just to wipe the soap off, but in another just as quick moment, Sans steps a little to the side, a little too close to the showerhead, and the hot water rushes at his chest.

Sans flinches. The spray hitting his soul jabs at him, a sudden swift burst of pain that’s not so distracting in its aching as it is in surprising him. He takes a fast, instinctual step back, shifting his balance uneasily as he slides his foot along the tub, and the soapy water pooling at his feet slips him off balance.

Sans gasps, startled, and automatically reaches out for something to grab onto. The shower curtain tugs down with him, his weight tipping over, and the side of the tub rushes at him, his wrist roughly hitting the edge and snapping back as he collides with the floor of the shower. 

Bile fills his suddenly conjured throat and spills into the tub. Sans heaves again and again, and then, he breathes heavily through the blinding pain. 

It’s agony. Fuck, it burns. It burns so bright, sharp bursts of static in his eyes as he rocks back and forth, teeth gritted and fingers clenched in a fist around his arm, holding the wrist as still as possible against his chest. His breath hisses through the pain. He dimly notes that it’s his left wrist he’s injured, the same one with the collar on it, and instead of comforting him as it’s always done, the weight of the leather resting against bone adds a flare of pain against the fracture. Sans laughs hoarsely. 

His head is pounding. His soul throbs in time, and the water from the showerhead just adds to the cacophony of pain. He draws his knees up to shield his soul as much as possible, but it still smarts like a fresh wound. (Because it is, idiot—) Sans doesn’t care. It all hurts the same anyways. 

Frantic pounding at the door. A second later, his brother’s voice follows, fast in his worry. “Sans? Are you all right?” 

Sans blinks through the water and watches it run down the drain, swirling around like it might need some Drano soon. Probably stopped up from Undyne’s hair slowly accumulating over the months and the fresh bile that just washed down. 

Sans rests his head on the edge of the bathtub and closes his eyes against the swift rush of nausea. Better keep his head turned so that any more vomit will also end up in the tub and not on the floor. He thinks he says back something like "I'm fine" to Papyrus to reassure him, but it comes out softer than he intended, likely unheard. 

“I’m coming in!” 

Welp. 

From the white noise ringing in his head, Sans distantly hears the door open as the steam of the shower rushes out the room and a draft traces along his shoulders, sharpening the cold sweat along his forehead. 

He’s dealt with worse before. A broken bone is nothing. Just have to power through it until the good doctor finishes, just listen to me, Sans, stop squirming around so much or else you will mess up the experiment ag— 

“Sans!” 

Hands on his shoulders. He opens his eyes and sees Papyrus crouching in front of him, the fallen shower curtain crumpling beneath his feet. 

He has to be able to see Sans’s soul. There’s no missing it and its sorry, broken state. But Papyrus isn’t looking at Sans's soul. He’s staring at his face, concern and alarm meshed together, eyes searching his. Even now, he won’t pry. The thought makes Sans’s breath shudder because fuck, what did he ever do to deserve such a cool brother? 

Papyrus must mistake his stuttering breath because his hands tighten around Sans’s shoulders. 

“What happened? What hurts?” 

Paps is too, too good for him. The least Sans could do is answer. 

He swallows around the dryness in his throat. A strange feeling, considering he’s surrounded by water. 

“Think my wrist broke,” He garbles out. 

Papyrus somehow blessedly manages to understand him. His eyes fall to the hand Sans is clutching to his chest, fingers gripped tight around his arm. Sans subtly shifts so that his hand rests right over his soul as a meager protection. Papyrus only stares at the bruised wrist, though, refusing to let his eyes wander. Sans feels another stab of gratitude. Or maybe that’s just his soul complaining. 

He remains as still as possible, trying to even out his breathing so that his chest doesn’t nudge his wrist too much. He doesn’t want to think through the next bout of nausea that’s going to roll through him the second he has to move his wrist. 

“All right. Ok. Let’s get you out of the shower first, and then we’ll take a look at it. Ok?” Papyrus’s voice is calm and falsely encouraging. Sans latches on to it tight. 

His brother curls one arm around Sans’s back and the other beneath the crook of his knees. No sense in worrying about modesty at this point. Doesn’t even really matter, considering the extent of times that Sans patched him up when they were younger. Much younger. 

He rests his head against Paps’s shoulder as he’s lifted out of the shower and placed gently on the soft rug, probably getting dog hair stuck to wet bone. Even the shower was a failure. Minus one point for Sans in the functioning adult category. Papyrus keeps one hand propped on Sans’s back so that he doesn’t have to lie down and be even more exposed. He reaches behind Sans. The shower turns off a moment later. 

His brother crouches down beside him again. “May I see?” 

Unsure of how much looking Papyrus wants to do with just his eyes and not his hands, Sans dutifully nudges the collar down his arm as much as possible before the nausea swells back in his gut. He relaxes the arm that’s clutching the other so that his wrist is a little more visible. Papyrus leans forward, examining the wrist that’s turned an amalgamation of blue and purple and crooked at a wrong angle. His frown deepens. Sans thinks of telling Paps his face is going to stick that way if he doesn’t smile, or something along those lines anyway. Some weird human myth. He decides to keep his mouth shut. 

Glancing at Sans’s eyes to check that it’s fine with him, Papyrus reaches over, wraps tentative hands around both the arm and hand that’s propped against Sans's chest, and tenderly pries it from his grip. 

Despite his brother’s gentleness, the wrist still moves ever so slightly. Sans catches a wince from forming, but Paps knows him well. The furrow in his brow deepens, and he stares intently at the fracture. 

“Your radius has snapped. I’m going to need to set this to heal it,” Papyrus says, voice slow and quiet to keep from wavering. Sans nods because he expected as much. It’s a better deal than when he wasn’t allowed to let his finger heal properly. It’s just pain. Here and gone in a flash. He’s fine. 

“You are most certainly  _not_ fine,” his brother says.  _Whoops_ , he thinks. Must’ve said it out loud. 

A moment as Papyrus paws blindly behind himself at the counter, snagging a shirt and handing it to Sans. 

“Here, you can bite this,” he says. He's trying to force a reassuring grin for Sans that's a little too slanted. 

Sans does. His free hand curls into the cotton. It’s just pain. 

(He also knows the shirt’s providing another screen for his soul from Papyrus’s eyes as it hangs in front of his chest. He doesn’t deserve his brother.) 

The wrist bends as Papyrus aligns the joint correctly. Sans doesn’t scream because he doesn’t need to. It’s fine. He’s fine. Just a little pain— 

The wrist snaps back into place, and Sans breathes raggedly. He can hear his breath whooshing around the shirt through his teeth, spit wetting the fabric. Bile burns at the back of his conjured throat, but it doesn’t come up again. 

As soon as the agony lances through him, it’s pressed away by the balm of Papyrus’s healing magic. His wrist throbs in time with the beat of his soul, but the worst is over. Sans focuses on breathing steadily. 

He’s shaking.

The light of the bathroom is overtaken by the soft green glow shining at his brother’s fingertips. It cradles his wrist, wrapping around it securely, easing the hurt soreness of the joint. Throughout all of this, Papyrus has been notably careful not to touch the collar. Now that he thinks about it, Sans isn’t sure if Edge’s protective magic will accept Paps’s touch. 

Something to ask later. 

They sit on the floor like a couple of idiots, or at least one idiot with a brother who’s cleaning up the other’s mess. Sans lets the shirt fall out of his mouth but keeps it clutched to his chest, and he presses his forehead to his brother’s shoulder, relaxing in his company. It’s soothing. 

Five minutes or an hour later, the healing magic dies away. Papyrus isn’t sweating like Edge normally does when healing his soul, so Sans guesses that Paps didn’t have to expend too much magic to fix his wrist. He doesn’t try bending it in the cradle of Papyrus’s hands. 

“There!” His brother exclaims. “That should hold it for now. I’m going to grab some bandages from the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink to wrap it, and then it’ll be good as new! Or at least as good as it can be.” 

Sans lifts his head from Paps’s shoulder. “There’s bandages beneath the sink?” His voice sounds like he swallowed gravel.

“And a whole lot more! You’d be surprised what I’ve found under there,” Papyrus says. 

He transfers Sans’s wrist from the safety of his grip to Sans’s lap then stands up. He eyes the wrist and Sans’s face, something indescribable in his expression. Then, he nods. He’s wringing his hands. 

“Right!” he says, a strained smile on his face and flees the bathroom, muttering something about dogs and shrines in unconventional locations. Sans stares fuzzily after him. 

His wrist still aches, but it’s hardly the same pain from ten minutes earlier. He feels drained from the whiplash of the night and decides it’s as good a time as any to retire early once his bro wraps his wrist. 

A shiver runs through his bare bones. Right. Clothes first. Then he’ll sleep. 

Sans remains sitting in the same position for a while, closing his eyes and resting his head against the cabinets. He focuses on breathing and doesn’t stir until Papyrus’s voice tentatively calls him down. 

***

A fresh pair of clothes, one bandaged wrist, a couple of Red’s sketchy pain pills, and a half hour later, there’s an insistent knocking at the door. 

Sans lifts his head from where it’s been propped against the armrest of the couch, a mug of sea tea cooling on the floor next to him in case the nausea returns, and stares at the door. Papyrus shoots up from the recliner on which he’s been alternating between sitting, abandoning, pacing, and then sitting again for the past five minutes. He smells like the disinfectant he used to wipe down the bathroom. Sans meets his eyes, betrayed. 

“You called them?” 

Papyrus huffs. “Cherry and Edgy Me would have been very concerned if I didn’t! Besides, would you rather explain to them tomorrow why your wrist has needed to be bandaged within the span of one night?” 

Sans shrugs. “Kind of, yeah.” 

Papyrus rolls his eyes and answers the door. Sans can practically feel the impatient uncertainty brimming from outside. A moment later, Edge and Red step into the living room. 

Their eyes zero in on Sans’s wrist, or at least they would if he didn’t have the couch blanket tucked up to his shoulders. Papyrus’s fussing tends to involve a steady plan of keeping the patient warm as he wears through the living room’s carpet. Tonight’s incident just so happened to involve the rare occurrence of medical gauze. 

Edge hesitates for a moment then walks over to the couch and sits gently in the little bit of real estate unoccupied by Sans. From across the room, Red stares hard at Sans. His face is carefully blank. 

“You said it was the left wrist, right?” Edge asks Papyrus though his eyes are on Sans in case he chooses to confirm or deny. 

“No, it was my left wrist, left,” Sans says. Edge's stare matches his brother's, and Sans grins shakily under its intensity. He can feel the lingering cold sweat beading at the side of his skull. 

Sans looks away because he can’t quite meet the full force of Edge’s concern and the “Yes, Sans, I also cannot believe I put up with your shit” gaze for too long. He can tell Edge wants to see for himself, so he tugs the blanket down to his waist. His attention drifts back down to his bandaged wrist, long since tenderly handled with Papyrus’s healing magic and likely fixed without a trace of the break left behind, but... 

He’s almost nervous, which is incredibly stupid, and he mentally kicks himself for even worrying about something so idiotic, but he can’t help but wonder about the scar that’s going to be left behind in place of formerly smooth bone when he takes the bandage off. 

(Not like it should matter. One of his fingers is already crooked, healed unnaturally from his time in the lab.) 

And why would it matter? Edge and Red have their fair share of scars. Sans knows they wouldn't think any less of him. 

(It's because those scars are proof they survived, and here Sans is, causing his own injuries. He can't wait to tell the story behind this scar, sharing how he couldn't even manage to take a simple shower like any other normal person would.) 

“Sans.” 

Edge’s voice draws him back to the present, softly requesting his attention. Sans looks away from his wrist and back at Edge. He’s not prepared for the tenderness in Edge’s expression. 

Easier to just deflect as usual. He says, “That was some wristy business, don’t you agree?” 

Edge sighs deeply. The shadow of a smile can be seen in the corner of his mouth, but it’s still tainted by the furrow in Edge’s brow like he believes Sans will fall apart at any moment. Jury’s still out on that one, but Sans knows without a doubt that Edge will pick each of the pieces back up with care and put him back together again. He’s done as much with Red. It feels weird and wrong that Sans has people who will clean up after his messes without question and are happy to do it. 

For all the useless space Sans takes up, he tries to match Edge’s (and Red’s) care and give back just as much. He’s still waiting for the moment that he’ll mess this up. 

Edge frowns when he sees the bandaged wrist, or maybe he’s frowning at the collar that undoubtedly got in the way of cutting off the bracing agony. Now that Edge is here though, Sans can feel the steady reassurance in the collar, warming him as it always does in Edge’s presence. Edge leans forward, expression tight, but he swiftly looks back at Sans before he touches the wrist. 

“May I?” he asks, so closely paralleling Papyrus that it makes Sans’s head spin. He grins ruefully. 

“It’s all yours, edgelord.” 

Edge’s hands are just as gentle as Papyrus’s in handling his wrist, but it hardly seems necessary with most of the pain gone. His fingers rest where the fracture was, tracing up his bones until they just barely reach the collar. It hums against Sans’s wrist, potent beneath Edge’s gentle touch. 

“I’m sorry,” Edge says. 

“Not your fault,” Sans replies, but he thinks he knows what Edge means. Sorry the collar added to the pain in his wrist. Sorry Sans had the misfortune of experiencing such pain. Sorry he couldn’t have prevented it, even if there was no possibility of that happening. 

Sans reaches over and pats his shoulder with his free hand. “It’s nearly good as new. Just a little stiff. A few days, and I’ll be left as rain.” 

“That’s not—” Edge begins then cuts himself off as it clicks in his head what Sans said. He sighs heavily and fixes him with a look that’s usually reserved for Red. 

“He does seem all right. Temporarily, that is,” Red says from where he’s been observing the exchange. Sans glances over at him and is surprised to see whatever hardness was in Red’s expression is gone. Red winks at him and shuffles over. 

“I wrist my case,” Sans says. 

“He’s been like this all evening,” Papyrus complains. 

“C'mon, bro.” Sans grins up at him. “Join the wrisistance.” 

“That one doesn’t even make sense!” 

“Yeah, he’s clearly a little loopy,” Red says. He stares pointedly at the spot behind Sans’s head then back at Sans. Sans rolls his eyes but doesn’t protest, leaning up so Red can sit down and press back down on Sans’s shoulder to rest his head in his lap. Sans figures there’s worse positions to be in. He finds Edge watching them indulgently, a hint of a smile showing. Red grins down at Sans. “How’s those pain meds hitting you, sweetheart?” 

Guess he won't have to recount his entire glorious tale of the shower incident if Papyrus already gave them the gory details over the phone. At least, he hopes as much. He doesn't really feel like reliving through his own embarrassment. Sans retracts his opinion of his position in Red's lap, regretting it for the whole span of five seconds as he attempts to shimmy away from Red to make his point, but a slight disapproving noise from Edge, whose fingers tighten ever so gingerly on Sans’s at the movement, keeps him in place. So, Sans settles for craning his neck to look up at Red. 

“Hardly feel them at all, I’m so present in the moment.” 

Edge‘s eyelights dart up from his wrist at that. “Are you hurting still? Do you need a stronger dose?” 

Sans meets Edge’s concerned frown and shrugs. The motion is a little awkward lying down like this, but whatever. 

“It’s not hurting too bad.” 

“Because you’re so good at knowing what’s a normal pain level,” Red says. 

Sans can’t exactly refute that in good conscience given his exposed track record. Then, to reassure Edge as his frown tightens even more, he says, “I’m fine. Really. Just a little sore and tired, but that’s nothing that a nap can’t cure.” 

“And while it’s something I don’t normally condone, I do believe you should take one to rest and recover,” Papyrus agrees. 

“Color me shocked,” Sans says. 

Edge glances at the time on his phone. “It’s already past eight. You might as well turn in early for the evening.” 

“Nice. Extra long nap.” 

Red hums. “Sounds like a good plan. It’d be even more foolproof with a buddy to keep you warm tonight.” 

Sans narrows his eyes at Red, but for all of his chaotic horny energy, Red doesn’t seem interested in getting laid tonight. If anything, there’s a tentativeness to his grin, the same cautious, pleading look as when he offered Sans to spend the night at his and Edge’s house. Was that only a few days ago? Feels like a century. 

Maybe that’s a sign that Sans needs a decent night’s rest. Either that, or he needs another vacation, one without fretting about feelings and not feeling said feelings. 

This whole sleepover business seems rather excessive though. It’s just a hurt wrist. Sans isn’t even dying, last he checked. 

He glances back at Edge. The uncertainty hasn’t left his eyes, and Sans feels a stab of guilt for causing another headache for him. Edge doesn’t deserve this. Yet, he holds on, clinging with some profound grip that loudly states his feelings towards Sans. It goes much, much deeper than concern like an entire world waiting just beneath the surface of a deceptively deep lake, but Sans doesn’t look too hard yet because he doesn’t want to mess this up in his exploration. Slow. He wants to do this slow and right. 

It’s enough that he already has an inkling of what's there, waiting for him. The collar rests comfortably beneath Edge’s hand. 

“Ok,” Sans says. “If that’s cool with you, edgelord.” 

“Yes, that’s fine. You needn’t even ask.” He shoots an inquiring look to Papyrus who's been anxiously watching a few steps away. “I hope that’s fine with you as well.” 

Papyrus scoffs. “You say that as if Cherry and I haven’t already had a sleepover. Only,” he raises a brow, “it was a lot less sleeping and a lot more agonizing over scientific conundrums.” 

“It takes a lot of scientific hours to build a dimension-hopping machine,” Red agrees. 

“And lots of casseroles,” Papyrus adds. 

“There’s still some in the freezer,” Sans says. “You sure those’re still safe to eat?” 

“Anything can be preserved for a lifetime if frozen!” 

“Sure, if it’s a lifespan of three months.” 

“I refuse to throw out perfectly good food,” Papyrus retorts. “Which reminds me that I should pull one out now to thaw for lunch tomorrow. People made those for us. It’s edible food!” 

Sans gives his brother a wry grin. “Even the bean and potato one?” 

A light flush appears on Papyrus’s face. 

“Yes, well.” He frowns at Sans. “No one in their right mind would put beans and potatoes in the same dish! They just don’t mix well. And the fact that they were sweet potatoes only slightly influenced my opinion. Who told you I threw out that dish anyways? You weren’t even here!” 

“Guilty,” Red says, waving a hand. 

“I hereby ban you from ever learning any more of my secrets, Cherry,” Papyrus says as he leaves the room. “You’ve lost your platinum membership status.” 

Sans looks at Red. “He means you’ve been downgraded to silver. ‘S pretty low tier.” 

“Aw, Paps, I didn’t mean it,” Red calls. 

“Traitors don’t get second chances!” Papyrus says from the kitchen. 

Sans grins. “Ousted from his good graces. How’s it feel, Benedict?” 

“Like I’ve gotta settle with the paupers.” Red grins down at him. “Wanna share a sleeping bag under the bridge and fuck each other for warmth?” 

“You’d break the fragile zipper keeping us enclosed,” Sans says. He tries to not to think of the fact that Papyrus is a room away. Not to mention Edge who is still cradling his wrist. His thumb smoothes over the collar, and Sans feels gutted by the heated look in Edge’s eyes. 

“Heh,” he says then decides now’s as good a time as any to sit up. Edge releases his sore wrist and places it in Sans’s lap. The realization that he’s caught between the two of them yet again is starkly clear. 

Red presses a kiss to the back of his neck, but he doesn’t try to instigate things. Good. Sans would kick him off the couch otherwise. Instead, Red says, “Paps said you slipped in the shower. Is it your soul?” 

Curse Red for being as much of an observant asshole as Sans is. Edge is watching him with the same intensity as he did earlier, and Sans doesn’t feel like turning the guy’s headache into migraine. 

He nods. “Yeah. Didn’t so much as hurt as startle me. It’s not as bad as before, though.” 

“I can heal your soul sooner this week if need be. There’s no need to commit to a schedule if you’re hurting,” Edge says. 

“I can wait another night,” Sans says. He grins softly at Edge. “Don’t worry about me.” 

“Easier said than done,” Edge sighs, but the look on his face is kind. Sans wonders what lucky steps he took to receive such a look. 

"Guess I better turn in early," he says, and Edge nods. Sans stares at him as he abruptly realizes something. 

“Are you heading out?” 

“Unfortunately, yes,” Edge says. “I have an early start planned for tomorrow to make up for today’s early closing, and there’s some pressing reports that I should finish before heading into the embassy.” 

“Gotcha,” Sans says faintly. The implication that Edge and Red drove here just to check on him boggles his mind. Edge clearly went out of his way to make sure that Sans’s measly fractured wrist hadn’t resulted in his untimely death, and the thought spreads heat through Sans’s bones like a blanket. He’s reminded yet again of what he means to them, what the collar around his wrist signifies. He’s not used to such care and concern other than from his brother. 

(Edge likely prohibited Red from shortcutting to Sans and effectively startling them in his urgent need to loom and crowd into the small space that Sans takes up in his weird way of offering comfort. Sans also notes that between the time it took for Papyrus to make his supposed phone call and when Edge and Red showed up seems a bit short, almost as if Edge was rushing.) 

Edge seems to consider something for a moment before reaching down and picking up the abandoned mug of sea tea that's been sitting treacherously close to Red's shoes. He presses it into Sans's uninjured hand. 

"Rest up. I'll keep my phone close in case you need me," Edge says. He stands, a hand resting briefly on the back of Red's neck before lightly laying on Sans's shoulder as well. He gives a gentle squeeze. His eyelights are soft, an almost-smile warming Sans to his marrow. "Good night." 

"Night, edgelord," Sans says. He ignores the pang as Edge nods to them and leaves, bidding goodbye to Papyrus while also reminding him to please lock the front door behind Edge as he sees himself out. The door closes definitively. 

Sans sighs, and to his surprise, Red echoes him. 

"Well, that was some night, huh?" Red says. 

"Yep," Sans says. 

He can feel Red over his shoulder. "Night's still young, too." Sans hears the grin. 

"Sorry, the lemon stand is closed. Come back tomorrow." 

"I'll take you up on that," Red says. He shifts behind Sans and stands up with a groan. Guess his shoulders are still a little sore. Sans ignores the brief flare of heat in his pelvis because his libido continues to be stupid, and it leaves him just a little bit confused in conjunction with the quiet pain of his wrist. 

Red nods at the cup in Sans's hand. "Drink your tea, and then, let's head to bed, sweetheart. We can make lemonade tomorrow at my place." 

"That's the best thing you've said all night," Sans says. He tips his mug back and finishes the drink in two long swallows. Red graciously takes the mug and discards it on the end table next to the couch before offering a hand to Sans. Sans lifts a brow because this kind of chivalry goes past cute and into unnecessarily overbearing, but Red might be feeling a little twitchy after tonight, so he humors him and places his uninjured hand in Red’s. 

Red looks at Sans like he can't believe he's attracted to such a dumbass. He affirms as much by saying in a tone dangerously close to fond, "No, idiot, I meant your other hand." 

Sans sighs but gives Red his injured wrist. His hand rests carefully in both of Red's, incredibly gentle pressure that is contradictory to Red's entire being. Red meets his eyes and presses a kiss to the tips of Sans's fingers. There's something burning in his gaze, repressed hunger or need. It demands his attention. 

“Think I saw you on TV earlier tonight,” he murmurs. He keeps a firm grip on Sans’s hand. 

“What?” Sans says, distracted. 

“Yeah. Really weird.” Red grins. “You were on the floor and all like “Help, I’ve fallen, and I can’t get up.”” 

Of course, Red ruins the moment. (Not that they were having a moment.) Hearing Red’s voice mimic a high pitch is incredibly disturbing, and Sans is certain the universe just folded in on itself. He stares unimpressed at Red’s wide grin. 

“You must’ve been astral projecting and got a second crack in your skull if you think I sound like that.” 

“Mm, it’s not too far off.” 

Red leans down and drags Sans into a long, slow kiss. The collar on Red’s neck beckons Sans’s searching fingers, and he holds on tight. 

Red says against his mouth, “Want me to carry you, princess?” 

“Thought I was the grandma.” 

“You can roleplay both. I’m up for a creative backstory.” 

“Kinky,” Sans snickers. 

After saying goodnight to Papyrus, they find their way up the stairs and into Sans’s bed in short order. It’s a familiar position, Red curled against his back. Sans sinks into the embrace, his aching wrist curled safely against his side, Red’s fingers resting gently on the collar. Sans closes his eyes and sees dreams of having Red at his back and Edge along his front, offering a gratifying sense of contentment that eases the tension from his shoulders. He feels Red breathing softly against his neck, no desire to disturb the silence after a long day as they settle into the cold comfort of the mattress. 

The dreams follow Sans into his sleep. 

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings: Sans accidentally breaking one of his bones and having a flashback to Gaster's verbal abuse, vomiting, Sans is not always in a good headspace about himself, Red making a joke about homelessness
> 
> Hi, I get a lot of ATTL!Sans feels when I listen to Hostage by Klangstof, and I feel like you should all know that.


End file.
